


May The Bridges I Burn Light My Way Back Home

by earbudmusic (icomparemyselftoyou)



Series: Nightmares [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Burning to death at the stake happens? not graphic tho, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Nightmares, Pete becomes Joan of Arc but not really, Podfic Welcome, Same series but you don't need to read the first one to get this, So this is basically pete's dream and how he deals with it, Translations Welcome, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icomparemyselftoyou/pseuds/earbudmusic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete has a nightmare and then wakes up alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May The Bridges I Burn Light My Way Back Home

**Author's Note:**

> So uh. Warnings for a kinda death but really not since it's a dream, burning at the stake, and that voice that always seem to come out when you're alone.  
> Any mistakes are my own, since i did minimal editing on this. Comment if you spot something and want me to change it.  
> The dream is based on how Joan of Arc died (which pete mentions to himself in the story).

Pete was locked in a small cell, overlooking a courtyard. There were guards on the door, everyone was speaking a strange dialect of English, he was absolutely filthy and, to top it off, he was in a woman’s body. His mind had the strangest dreams sometimes. 

“There be no Dauphin to save you here,” one of the guards said as he leered from the door at Pete’s feminine body. “Ain’t no one here to save you, addle-brain.” 

Pete didn’t answer the guard, looking down as soldiers built a pyre that he had a creeping suspicion was meant for him- or whoever’s body he was in. Pete was decidedly not liking the feeling of watching his own death pyre being built. The guard grunted and went back to whatever guards did when there wasn’t a conflict. (Staring at a wall, maybe?) 

Pete blinked and suddenly it was nighttime, and there were footsteps coming up the stairs. Low voices floated into the solitary cell, and then the door was open and Andy and Joe were stepping in, except they weren’t themselves. Dressed in regal clothing that put Pete’s dingy prison garb to shame, they held a hostility in their eyes, a pure malice, that Pete had never seen his bandmates direct at him before. 

“The tribunal has decreed that you shall be burned at noon-day tomorrow, until death,” ‘Joe’ said.

“You’re hair shall be shorn and you will wear a simple gown for your execution,” ‘Andy’ continued. 

“Does it really matter what I look like for this? Seeing as I’m being  _ burned alive, _ ” Pete retorted, annoyed at the thought of losing his hair. 

‘Joe’ huffed in annoyance. “It matters a great deal. You must be made an example of.”

And when a sharp turn, they left Pete alone in his cell again. The moon was high in the sky, bright and full of promises it couldn’t keep. Although it was late, Pete felt no desire to sleep. Instead, he contemplated his own fast approaching mortality, and whether the flames would still hurt if he fell asleep while tied to the stake.

_ Would you sacrifice someone else to the flames? Patrick, or any of your other friends? _

“Never,” Pete whispered. He deserved this. He would always deserve the pain more than  his friends did. 

Pete blinked, and his hair was cropped close to his head, and he was in a simple white gown. The guards were dragging him down to the courtyard, as he fought, kicking and screaming. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped. The grips on his arms relaxed from vice to simply restraining, and as they lead him up the steps and over the kindling to the pole, he was calm and dignified. 

As his charges were read, he gazed out over the crowd, looking at faces he recognized and some he didn’t. He saw William and Gabe, Max, Tyler, Josh, and caught a glimmer out of the corner of his eye that could have been Patrick’s hair. A soldier handed him a simple wooden cross, which he took and put in the front of the gown. 

[ Reference picture of a painting of the burning of Joan of Arc if anyone cares ](http://f.tqn.com/y/womenshistory/1/S/y/l/2/Joan-of-Arc-19th-century.jpg)

As Joe and Andy finished reading his charges and they began to light the torches, he closed his eyes. 

He would always deserve the pain. No matter what Patrick or his band brothers thought, he would  _ always  _ deserve the pain. 

 

Pete woke up with everything hurting. His throat hurt, possibly from screaming, his feet hurt from kicking the sides of the bunk, his hands hurt from clawing down the top of the bunk. It was a miracle he hadn’t fallen out. He didn’t know why he hadn’t been woken up, but then again, it was a vacation day. No one was on the bus except him. He should have set an alarm to get up sooner. 

Crawling out of his bunk slowly, Pete, checked his phone. Patrick had texted him that they were going out to see the local sights and would be back in time to leave for the next city. Pete sighed. It was only 1 pm and they weren’t leaving until 7. The prospect of filling the empty six hours that stretched before him made Pete want to cry. 

_Poor little Petey, tired of living out his dream. Poor little Petey, all alone and suicidal._ _  
_ He hadn’t understood why his dream took on a Joan of Arc feel. He rarely understood any of the nightmares. It was a shame his subconscious knew him so well and that it could tear him apart, rip him to pieces, all while he stood helplessly in the battering. 

The dreams were slowly killing him. He knew that; it was an unavoidable fact. They made it seem like his brain wanted him to die, wanted him to end this pitiful existence. Pete wanted to desperately, but couldn’t. Couldn’t bear failure in this attempt, couldn’t bear to look at his family and friends again. He had survived once. If he attempted again, it wouldn’t be an failure. It would be a funeral. 

It’s a strange thing really, that suicide is the one thing that you consistently want to fail at. Well, that other people want you to fail at. Other people rarely wished for anyone to truly kill themselves. Bullies often dealt in hyperbole anyway. 

Pete sighed and flopped down on the couch. He flicked  through the TV channels and wound up watching an old Degrassi episode. Maybe the high school drama bullshit would help him forget the feeling of burning, feeling his skin blister, crack, forget how his voice had become hoarse from both the screams and the smoke. 

This forgetting thing was really working out well for him.

With Degrassi not mind numbing enough, he texted Patrick a short “ _ where evn r u guys. _ ”

He waited for a few minutes and when that didn't get a response, he went back to his bunk to dig out his torn up notebook. Biting the tip of the sharpie he always kept tucked in its wire spiral, he began to write after a few moments. 

Fast, furious black lines filled the page- scribbles which Pete hoped he could get Patrick to help him decipher and turn into lyrics someday. 

_ Light a match to burn down your mind when the self esteem stops keeping you warm at night.  _

After filling two pages with close, messy, scrambled scribbles, Pete capped the sharpie and walked back out to the main lounge. No one was back in yet anyway, so Pete changed the channel to VH1 and prepared to scroll through Twitter and Tumblr for the remaining 5 hours. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and prepare yourselves for the next dream, which is half written...  
> DO NOT repost with out my permission.


End file.
